The Artist's Daughter
by thenostalgicdreamer
Summary: My dreams were nothing more than an artistic fantasy. I'm not an artist. I am just a wanna be, the dreamer of empty dreams.


_I threw my painting in the garbage. It was my baby, the final project for my art class. I wanted more than anything for it to be beautiful and perfect. But it wasn't. The colors smeared into gray blobs of nothingness; the paper became raw and torn. It'd never be anything._

 _So I tossed it. And my dreams went into the garbage with it. Ever since I'd watched my dad edit videos from my crib, I'd dreamed that someday I would be an artist just like him. I'd create pieces that would tell my story; I'd show the beauty of life. My work was always unremarkable, so far below the heights of my dad's greatness. But I never gave up, I never stopped believing. Someday, I would be a grownup, and I would be able to create beautiful art. As long as I wasn't afraid to try, I would be an artist._

 _Staring down at the crumpled paper in the garbage, I knew that my dreams were nothing more than an artistic fantasy. I'm not an artist. I am just a wanna be, the dreamer of empty dreams. No matter what I do, I'll never be an artist like my dad._  
-Esmeralda Wade, Artist's Daughter

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I clicked publish. With that one action, the words left my head and became part of the world that was Artist's Daughter. It felt freeing write the next part of my story, to share my pain as well as my joy with the world. But the world couldn't solve my problems. It was my life, and I was the one who made the decisions about its course. I knew exactly what I needed to do—talk to my dad. My friends saw only his quirks and wondered how I could put up with a dad like him, but they couldn't see all that I could see. They had no clue that his boundless creativity was part of what made life fun. They missed the little moments where he shared the gems he had gleaned over years of living the adventure called life. And it was that wisdom that I was after now.

I paused outside of the door of his home office. He had told me that I was always welcome to venture in, but he might be busy, too busy to talk to me. The door was cracked, granting me a full view of the room inside. The walls shone orange and purple. Orange was his favorite color; purple was Mom's. Being quite the color snob, he loved the combination. The walls were covered with pictures of family adventures and quotes from his favorite movies. It wasn't the typical office, but it reflected dad. He himself sat in the center of the room almost swallowed up by a gigantic orange recliner. I had always thought that he was lucky to be able to do some of his work from his favorite recliner at home. His black and red polkadot pants and red "yes weekend" t-shirt were a splash of color in a room that was already colorful. His bright blue eyes were focused on the shiny laptop in front of him. I knew that look—he was hard at work. I didn't feel like interrupting the magic I knew was happening, but I had to talk to him.

I put my hand on the door and opened it just a little more. I tiptoed in and walked behind the chair, so that I could see what Dad was working on. His favorite movie editing program was open, and he was making the final tweaks on some scenes. He was so intent on the task at hand that he didn't notice me until I spoke.

"Dad?" I ventured.

"Yes," he replied, his eyes barely leaving the screen.

"Daaad?" I tried again.

"Yes, sweetie," he answered back without looking at me.

Upon peeking in, I had had the feeling that he was too busy to see me. Now, I was sure. He was so focused that he wouldn't notice if I quietly made my exit. But I just couldn't, not when I needed him.

"Dad," I said trying again. I tapped his shoulder in an attempt to get his attention. "Are you busy? Should I come back later?"

"…No…," he said reluctantly. "Uhhh…this can wait. I was just getting really excited about seeing how this scene would come together. The montage is going to be epic." He shut his laptop and set it on the metal desk at his left.

I smiled. The excitement in his voice was inspiring to me. Dad was so passionate about everything in life. I had always wanted to love my career as much as he loved being a director. If only I could pursue a career in the arts, perhaps I could. Now that I wouldn't be doing that, I was sure that my career would feel like work. With that thought, I felt my smile turn into a frown.

"Take a seat, baby girl," he said gesturing to the purple leather ottoman in the corner with a flourish. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

I walked over and plopped down on the ottoman with a sigh. "Daaaad!" I exclaimed. "Just look at me. I'm sixteen years old. I'm definitely not a baby anymore!" Of all the things that annoyed me, feeling young and immature might have been the most. I wanted to feel as wise as Dad, but I couldn't when he just wouldn't stop calling me baby girl.

"Aww…honey," he gushed. "My baby girl's almost grown up on me. Good thing I have all those movies and memories of when you were a tiny baby. You were the most adorable little thing…"

"If you are going to get all mushy about how cute I was when I was a baby, could you just go talk to mom? I sure she'd be glad to hear all the sap you want to spill."

He got out of his chair and headed for the door. Dad might be an artistic genius, but sometimes the subtleties of conversation eluded him. He probably hadn't gotten the fact that I was just wanting him to stop gushing.

"Dad, I didn't mean that you should go right now," I explained. "I wanted to talk to you. Remember?"

He stopped and put his hand on the door. It was clear that he had finally gotten the message. When he spoke, his tone was serious. "Okay, what were you wanting to talk to me about?" My dad was the most fun person in the world, but I loved that he knew how to be serious when he needed to.

"I'm just….I'm just having trouble with my painting…I'm stuck, and I don't know what to do. I've tried again and again, but I can't get anywhere."

"Well, show me what you've got," dad replied cheerily.

"I don't really have anything."

"You've got to have something. You've been working on it for over a week, and I've seen papers on your desk every time I've been in your room."

"Honest, Dad, I don't," I replied feeling irritated.

"Show me your latest attempt." His tone was forceful.

"It's in the garbage."

"Esmeralda, go get it anyway," he insisted.

"Okay," I grumbled. I shrugged my shoulders and left the room. Dad was generally carefree, but he could be stubborn when he wanted to be. Mom had always claimed that it was her influence, and I couldn't help but agree. Anyone who could stand a chance arguing against Mom had to be stubborn, and Dad could hold his own even when they were discussing the best pizza topping or whether or not he was the love whisperer. Now, though, I wished he hadn't learned so well from Mom. I really didn't want to show him that piece of trash.

I wandered back into my room and grabbed the painting out of the garbage. Smoothing out the wrinkles, I couldn't help hoping that somehow magically it had turned into the painting I had been dreaming of. But alas, it was still the blob-covered, splattered mess I'd tossed just minutes before. I meandered back to dad's office feeling a little ashamed. Why did this have to be the best I could do?

I pushed the door open again and seated myself on the ottoman. Dad was already back on the computer. "Dad," I yelled in attempt to make sure my words reach him in his focused state. "I'm back."

I waited until he was looking up before continuing. "Are you ready, Dad? It's pretty bad." I turned the painting towards him.

"Yeah, that's not so good," he replied rubbing his neck. Dad was never one for smoothing things over or putting a positive spin on things. I knew I could count on him to give it to me straight.

"That's why it was in the garbage."

"I don't see your problem. I think you're old enough to not need me to tell you to try again."

"Dad, you've got to understand. This is my two hundredth try! I'm not going to try this again. It's not going to get better than this. I'm just not an artist."

"What? You're not my favorite darter? I've loved you, Essie, since the day you were born. I love all of my kids, but none of the rest of them will ever be my Esmeralda Taylor."

"No, dad, I said I'm not an artist," I repeated, feeling slightly frustrated that he hadn't gotten my point.

"Oh," he replied with a confused look on his face. "What do you mean?"

"I've always believed that someday I'd be an artist like you," I began. Once I got started, the words seemed to tumble out faster and faster. "My works haven't been original or spectacular or anything, but I've always thought that if I never was afraid to try, I could be an artist. But look at this painting, just look at it. It was the best I could come up with. I'm sixteen years old, almost an adult. My art isn't going to take a magical turn for the better. This is the best I'll be. I'll never be an artist."

"Well, I didn't say it because I didn't want to destroy your dreams, but I've never thought you'd be an artist. You've got heart and passion, but your art has never been up to par," Dad said simply. His words shot through me like an arrow. I couldn't believe that my dad had just agreed with me that I would never be an artist. This was the guy who always said exactly what he was thinking. I felt touched that he had held himself back from saying the words that would have crushed my dreams, but that had only meant that the blow had been delayed. I felt the tears come to my eyes and put my head in my hands.

"Oh, honey," Dad cooed. I felt his arm around me and leaned my head on his strong shoulder. "Dreams don't always come true, and sometimes that's a good thing….Growing up, I always had crushes on quiet girls with even quieter smiles. I always thought that I'd marry the calm girl who'd always be bright, sweet, and kind, but that dream never came true. Instead, I ended up with your mom. She couldn't have been more different than what I had been imagining. In high school, we fought so much that we could have been picked least likely to become a couple. When we reconnected at our tenth reunion, I realized that she was a very special person. She has been exactly what I needed. With her help, I've learned so much, become so much stronger. People always say that if you wish hard enough or work hard enough your dream will come true, but that's not the truth. And sometimes that's a good thing because we can't always know what would be right for us. Besides, where would the adventure be if everything always happened just the way we wanted it to?"

Dad smiled down at me. That smile was one of my favorite things in the world. Seeing it was like looking into his warm heart. It just made me feel so settled to know how much he loved me. He was upbeat as he continued. "Don't let the fact that this dream is dying knock you off your feet. When I look at you, I see a talented young lady. You sound so beautiful when you sing and play your ukulele, and your blog posts bring tears to my eyes. You might not be an artist in the way you've always dreamed, but you've got an artist's touch. You tell stories when you sing and play and write." The tears streamed down my face at his words. He was too kind, but that didn't change the fact that I'd never be an artist like him.

"Thanks, Dad, but I've always wanted to be like you," I managed between sobs. "I've wanted to make sand Chihuahuas on the beach for my kids, hang my own drawings on my living room walls someday, make movies with my sisters. But now I can see that I won't."

"Esmeralda," Dad said turning my face toward him. He grabbed a tissue from the ever handy box and handed it to me. "You don't really want to be like me. I'm forgetful. I'm sure you have memories of me leaving you at the park or the store or grandma's. You want to be brave not someone who will get spooked by a snake a leave their little girl in a swamp. You might feel like I'm perfect because I'm your dad, but I am a flawed human just like you. You are important, Esmeralda. You need to just go out there and be you. Embrace the adventure of life. It's going to look different for you than it did for me. You may not make a career in art, but your ability to paint hasn't changed. I believe you have a painting that's due; you need to go do it."

"Okay, dad, I will," I said drying the tears.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked me gently patting me on the back.

"Yes, dad," I answered getting up from ottoman.

He turned to me and winked. "I think you've got this. Go get 'em, tiger."

I was laughing as I walked out the door and down the hall. I returned back for one last peak at dad. I was curious whether he was already back to work. He was. He probably didn't really have the time to talk to me, but he had made time because he wanted to. He was a remarkable man—my daddy. My heart still ached at the thought of not being an artist like he was. I probably would always miss it, but I didn't need to be afraid. I might not be able to sculpt or draw or paint, but I was an artist's daughter. Artist blood ran through my veins. People would hear it when I sang, feel it when they read the words I wrote. I had no idea what my future would look like, but I knew it would be okay. No matter what happened, I would always be the artist's daughter—the reflection of my wonderful father.

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 **Author's note: My goal with this was to show another angle on Dez as well as to tell Esmeralda's story. I'd love to know what you think.**


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